To Carry On
by StrangerX
Summary: I've heard Tim Drake referred to as the most screwed over character in DC comics, so I couldn't resist writing some dark drabble about what's going on in that head of his. Rated T for angst.  This is my first story, so only constructive critique, please.


I've lost a lot; Mom, Dad, Stephanie, Conner, Bart, Bruce… need I go on? If I must, then I must, but it's hard- so hard. How do you go, when so much is missing? I guess that I've done better than most people, but I'm not sure how much longer I can last. Or if I want to…

Just look at me. If I can't even protect the ones that I love, then what am I doing protecting a city? What am I doing protecting the world? What good am I doing? What good am I? I'm losing everything. How long will it be until I don't have anyone left at all?

I still have family, don't get me wrong; Dick, Babs, Alfred, Cassie… They're still here for me, and they probably always will be. I can't deny that they love me, and they're a part of me, I'd be lying if I said otherwise. But there are parts of me that are gone now. I'll never get them back. I'm left with holes in my chest. Big, ragged, dark holes dangerously close to my heart.

I'm full of holes… They never go away. You can't heal them. It's an infection that spreads…

I feel sick…

Then there are the questions. They made no sense before, and they certainly don't make sense now. They play through my mind, non-stop, like a stuck record. Why couldn't I protect them? Why did they have to die? And, if people like _Jason Todd_ can come back, why can't my parents? Or my mentor? Or my closest friends? Nobody ever answers; they never do.

That's why other people give up; they take to the nearest bridge, or skyscraper. The thought has crossed my mind so many times before, but I've never told anyone. I don't want to scare them, but I understand, now, _why _they make that choice. I want the same thing as those jumpers all do.

I want that blessed respite form the sick feeling. It starts in your chest, inside that hunk of pulsating muscles and arteries we call a heart; that horrid feeling when you lose that part of you where you kept someone you loved, and it fills with darkness. It's so heavy, like hot lead, filling all the holes.

Sometimes, I feel it's too heavy, but I can't put it down. All you can do is fall, which I suppose means that I'm pretty strong, since I still have my feet under me. But someday, I'm afraid I'll trip, and it'll all be over.

Then again, would that really be so bad? All I want is to sleep but when I dream all I can ever see is their faces.

Every so often, I stop, perched on some narrow ledge, high above the dark streets of Gotham or Blüdhaven, and I ask myself, "Why do I still do this?" There was one time, not long after Bart was killed, on patrol with Dick, when I guess I stared down at the grimy pavement for too long, and he came up behind me and said, "Timmy, are you alright?" He used my actual name, so I knew he was very concerned, though his voice betrayed little emotion.

"Why am I doing this? Why do I carry on?" The query sounded harmless enough to me, but it obviously scared the shit out of Dick, because before I knew it, his strong arms were wrapped tightly around me. "Because it's our job. We protect the innocent, Timmy. We carry on, because that's what we do!" He looked at my face, I could feel tears welling in my eyes, and there was only so much a mask could hide.

Masks… why do we live behind them? "We carry on to keep what we have left." And with that, he drew back, and faded into the night.

I jumped. Yes, I stooped that low. The extra weight made me fall faster, and made the frigid air sting even more. I ignored Dick's voices yelling to me as I plummeted earthwards.

I suppose I have Dick's love of poetic justice for my continued existence. Otherwise, I would've ended up as Blüdhaven street pizza on the corner of 8th and Main. I didn't want anyone to see me like that. Not Dick, not Barbara, not Alfred, and especially not Bruce. I don't want him to lose another son. I couldn't hurt any of them like that.

Something about those simple words he gave me, letting me know he cared, sort of anchored me.

It was incredibly cliché, but that's what happened. I comprehended the infinitely deeper meaning in that cryptic phrase that I can't quite articulate.

In some way, my brother's words alleviated the anguish, if only a little. I hung onto them like a lifeline. They keep me afloat. Soon it became like morphine to me, like heroin, even. It was my drug, I was addicted, and if you take it away from me, I go through withdrawal, just like any druggie in the dark back alleys.

It still hurt. God, yes, it hurt, I don't think it'll ever heal completely. I still cry myself to sleep at night, every night, wishing I could get my friends back. But there's no denying I have to carry on.

We all do, us heroes.

If we don't who will?


End file.
